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Now, as Rodrigo drove his red convertible north, traveling from the private airport outside Los Angeles to his beach house near Malibu, Rodrigo glanced at the rearview mirror. He saw his baby’s pudgy hand waving from the rear-facing baby seat. Jett was making cooing noises, and seemed delighted to be in California, beneath the palm trees and warm blue skies.
It was strange to think he had a child. Even stranger for Rodrigo to think he was a father. What did he know about fatherhood?
His own parents had left him in the care of nannies. His mother, an American actress, had traveled the world enjoying her love affairs, as the man who’d supposedly been his father, Francisco Cabrera, had tortured himself with jealousy pursuing the unfaithful wife he adored.
It wasn’t until Francisco’s funeral, when Rodrigo was twenty-one, that his mother told him the reason the man always seemed to despise him. Rodrigo’s real father had been the chauffeur.
“He was very handsome, and I was bored, what can I say?” Elizabeth Cabrera had told him, putting her finger to her cheek thoughtfully. “It was just a one-night indiscretion. Francisco wanted me to get rid of you. Perhaps I should have. My figure was never quite the same after.”
Now, Rodrigo glanced in the rearview mirror of the convertible, toward his son. Jett was such a sweet little boy, with big black eyes and chubby cheeks. He’d been obviously well fed and well cared for. Obviously loved. Beneath Lola’s ferocity, there was utter devotion for their son.
He appreciated that about her, at least.
In some ways, their new relationship was simple: they were a family. But between Rodrigo and Lola, now husband and wife, it was a little more complicated.
His gaze now shifted to his wife, sitting beside him in the convertible. Her arms were folded, and she was seething silently at the wide Pacific Ocean as they drove up the coastal highway. He smiled grimly.
He hadn’t lied when he’d said she was smart and a fighter. She’d been the best personal assistant he’d ever had, even better than Marnie, his longest-serving secretary. He’d relied on Lola’s intelligence, on her strength. She’d been a miracle worker as an employee, always able to achieve the impossible, willing to work any hour of the day or night, even on Christmas Day.
For two years, he’d wanted her. But he hadn’t let himself even flirt. Then, after Lola had kissed him in Mexico City, he’d taken her to bed, and discovered she was a virgin. From that moment, they’d been intoxicated, drunk on passion and pleasure. When she’d told him she loved him, in spite of everything, his heart had expanded in his chest.
Then Marnie had given him those awful photographs of Lola half-naked in that chair, looking seductively into the camera. And there was more.
Sir, there’s something you should know about Lola Price.
Rodrigo still felt sick thinking about it.
But why had Lola ever done those sordid things at eighteen? The thought jolted him. Because she clearly wasn’t the coldhearted gold digger he’d once believed her to be. If she’d cared only about money, she would have demanded a huge payout from Rodrigo the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant.
So why had Lola posed for those provocative photographs? Why had she done even worse? Just youthful stupidity? He ground his teeth. He’d had his share of that himself, with his own three broken engagements. But was there more to it? Had she just been desperate to be a movie star? Or had something forced her into it?
Rodrigo looked at Lola out of the corner of his eye. The warm wind was tossing her blond hair in the sun. But her jaw was tight, and she was tapping her fingertips on the convertible’s armrest in repressed fury.
No point in asking her, he knew. She guarded the darkest secrets of her soul with grim determination. In that, she and Rodrigo were the same.
During the flight from New York on his private jet, they’d sat at opposite ends of the cabin, ignoring each other. She’d accused him of bossing her around, being a tyrant. Not a great start. But it wouldn’t go on for long.
His gaze traced down the curve of her cheek, to her swanlike throat and full breasts. He’d promised to honor and cherish her, forsaking all others. She
didn’t realize that he’d already done that for the last year. He was hungry for her. Starving.
He wanted her in his bed. Tonight.
But first, he needed her to actually look at him. He grudgingly extended an olive branch.
“Are you really so upset about leaving New York?”
“You had no right,” Lola said, turning to him with her eyes blazing. “Just because I’m your wife doesn’t mean I’m your slave. I wanted to stay in New York, but you didn’t care! Just like you didn’t care you frog-marched me through our wedding!”
“You wanted Morozov there?”
She let loose a curse that would have made a sailor blush.
“Not Morozov, then,” he said, amused. “Then who?”
“My friends. Hallie. Tess.” She looked disconsolately out at the hills. “My sisters.”
“You said you haven’t seen your sisters in years.”
